


i slithered here from eden, just to sit outside your door

by poludeuces



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: M/M, body worship elements, spoilers to summer 5, talks of scars burns and scales, this is a nsfw fic but it's soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27364093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poludeuces/pseuds/poludeuces
Summary: there is a single stain left in the map. it is dantes' responsibility to tie up any loose ends.that means getting rid of a ghost.
Relationships: Hans Christian Andersen | Caster/Edmond Dantès | Avenger, Undisclosed Relationship(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14





	i slithered here from eden, just to sit outside your door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gon (pepperedfox)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/gifts).



> hello! some things before we begin:
> 
> \- this is choked full of dantes, andersen and dumas references. i have included the references at the bottom of the fic  
> \- this is nsfw! no kinks here, but there are some body worship elements. this is very soft.  
> \- this is adult andersen from summer 5  
> \- spoilers to summer 5!  
> \- if you are interested in this ship, please read the rest of jay's stuff. i tried to slot this nicely into their [Demon and Bluebird](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778374) but well, an author can only try his best

The sunset dipped down low in the sky, its rays cascading over the lake illuminating it in a fiery glow. The water was still warm, having bathed in the summer’s heat, but the cool fall wind had begun dancing through the pine trees. Summer was coming to an end, the story coming to a close, the final page just a couple of turns away.

All of the actors had already bowed out. The encore’s claps have faded out. The seats have been emptied. All that remains are the back-of-house, tidying things up just in case the stage needed to be used once again.

He doubted it.

The shadowy figure was familiar with abandoned cities. He knew how to investigate a place no longer alive. Ghosts stuck to the walls like tar to trap terrified tourists in curses. This land has already begun to be overrun with monsters once more. Hands dare to reach out to grasp at his ankle or his coat before being singed in black fire. Names call out from the dark wood as if to draw him near. His resolute remains firm - he knows far too well what hides in the dark.

From the wood rises the apartment complex. It’s upkeep is shoddy, vines have crept up the sides, threatening to overwhelm it completely. Rust eats away at the protruding reverb like blood on exposed ribs. Trees that used to simply frame the front have grown tall and wide, almost fully blocking the entrance. Whoever’s job it was to keep up appearances has given up any semblance of it. 

A slick and modern apartment complex has fallen under the control of the ghosts that host it. They hover from the windows, clawed fingers gripping at the windowsill, eyes as black as night staring at the figure as he makes his way up the steps leading to the door.

It takes just a bit of black fire to burn the vines down, their flames running up like electrical wires. The trees require a few slashes from his demonic arms. He cannot fix the holes himself, but a glare is enough to scare away some of the ghosts. A few, more monstrous than those cowardly ones, remain to sneer at him. They resemble the gargoyles from Notre Dame - he smirks up at them. They can stay.

The door resists his push as he presses against its handle, creaking due to lack of use. Or perhaps due to too much use. It does not take too much prodding for Lady Murasaki to explain the summer’s events he missed. 

Just like this door - someone was forced to open up. 

Just like this building - ghosts took over. 

Just like this place - a man was pulled out of the shadows. 

Of course, he is not someone who prefers to be dragged out in the sunlight. Perhaps it is better that due to the scheming of one particular woman he had become preoccupied. He is unsure how he would have handled the muddled confessions, the mermaid-eater and the room filled with locked monsters.

It has always been his duty to go and tie up loose ends. To make sure that his master has no problems later on. 

To be sure that his master has no nightmares, he will fight the darkness tirelessly. So that Chaldea is at peace, he will do the dirty work.

This time it does not feel like such. Perhaps that vampire has done a good job at tidying everything up already. He had not originally trusted her, she reminded him too much of the love-struck ladies of his past, and her enemy a Heloise. Maybe it was the will of his master or those around them. Nevertheless, everything appeared to be nicely tidied up and stored away. 

He pushes through the door with one good shove. There was only one stain left.

It made sense for this dot to be the sole remnant remaining in the scene. It acts as a blot on the painting, a bonus only to be played if one really cared for full map completion. Maybe that nun would have wanted to clean it up. 

But even she understands the importance of keeping some things to their places and times. Despite her desire to take the spot with her - there’s a necessity to keep things until it is the right time.

Or rather, that is what he tells himself as he moves up flights of stairs. Mercedes could only be revealed in his prison, she needed to shine in America. On the other hand, his Haydee could never be based in hell, born from flower petals and French countryside.

This blot needed to be created here. A shadow that never created. A version to take care of a woman who never got the chance to exist. A fairytale to ease the minds of the wise and string along those of the foolish.

He reaches the landing and pushes through the door. The sun has fully dipped past the horizon now, leaving the air cool and the sky dark. His cape and hair flutters in the wind. It feels nice, familiar. His eyes linger on the door at the end. 

Perhaps he has been lying to himself. 

Perhaps there had been another reason he felt compelled to clean up this sore spot.

Perhaps he had wished to meet the man in question. 

Perhaps, something in the back of his mind told him he needed to come.

He sighs and brings his hand up to the door. He knows their way of speaking: one knock, if there’s no reply - enter. He feels foolish as he carries nothing with him, no food from the grocery store nearby, no alcohol, just the cigarettes of different sins in his pockets. He wonders if this version follows the same rules as the ones set by his other self - he wonders if this version knows of him.

Of course he does, he tells himself. That damned serpent, the one who breathed his life onto the world stage, was friends with him. If this version of him carried any semblance of that man, then he would have spent time with the snake who made him his muse.

A single knock.

His ears are fine-tuned and his breathing still. He can feel his heart beat hard against his chest. Why did this put him more on edge than the ghosts that studied him from the corners? They have climbed the walls, opened the doors and crawled out of neighbouring windows. He pays them no mind but they speak nonetheless. Critics to an uninterested audience.

They whispered to him, voices hoarse, “The master of the house is an unpleasant man.” This one from a shorter one, with a long and thin wisp down its face, semblant of a beard. 

“All he does is sulk and consume.” A gluttonous one with eyes the colour of gold and rotting teeth.

“Soon, he will be like us.” A smaller girl with bows that flutter in her spiderweb hair.

“A ghost!” A man with a crooked smile and no hair. 

“You should head out soon, sir,” an orphan boy. “Those of the living cannot reside with us.”

He cocked an eyebrow, “You do not know of whom you speak.”

There is no reply to the knock. He can enter.

“I am a monster as well.”

The knob turns and the door gives way. When he closes the door behind him, the ghosts disappear with the night.

* * *

There is but a single light in the apartment on. The front entryway is dark, illuminated by the room opposite to it. He looks down - a pair of deep blue mary janes sit next to a smaller pair of pink slippers. He knows their owners immediately. There’s a cabinet to slide your shoes in, one that the master of the house must not have been using, armed with a shoehorn. He takes it and slides off his shoes into the cabinet. There are no extra slippers - socks will do.

The kitchen has fallen into disarray. A quick glance is all he needs to gather that the other has not been eating properly. Mountains of picked delivery cartons are piled on top of plates and supermarket bags. Receipts hang from magnets on the refrigerator door. He pulls at one and chuckles softly to himself. At least he is eating rich! Fine meats and wines, fresh breads and rich cheeses. On other days, it’s boxes of instant coffee and take-away sandwiches. When his courier disappears, so too does the extravagance, leaving a poor man’s food that can be eaten quickly. 

Just like the ghosts that haunt outside and the shadows that creep up the building, there is no comfort left here.

He quickly burns the trash and deposits the dishes into the sink. He finds a little step stool tucked against it, decorated with frogs and ducklings. Dish soap that smells like flowers and sponges that are bright pink litter the countertop. Alright, perhaps some comfort remained in her touches. He uses her sponges to clean up the dishes, leaving them in a tray to dry. 

It does not take a long time for him to find the french press. He rinses out the dust and finds coffee grinds. It’s a delicious dark roast, perfect for sweet bananas and rich chocolates. Again he feels foolish for not bringing treats. A half-eaten box of chocolate cookies will have to do. 

This feels familiar. He places the kettle on the stove and listens to the soft clicks as the gas turns on. The flames erupt and light the base, some daring to lick up the sides. When it whirs softly, he shuts it off and places it on a separate burner. Delicately, he pours the hot water into the french press until it reaches an indented line. He scoops the coffee grinds in and fastens the lid. He waits.

The apartment is silent. If its occupant was upset with his interruption, he would know by now. Sometimes, he thinks he hears the scurrying of a quill against paper, or the creaks and groans of a chair. The wind whistles outside. It makes the curtains flutter in the open window. He walks over and closes it.

The family room is a farce of what it used to be. Children’s colouring books sit open on the floor. Toys litter the sofa. He makes an attempt to collect them all into a pile so as to not trip over them. 

The clock on the stove tells him that the press is ready, and he carefully pushes it down, mixing the coffee grinds and hot water. He has no tray here. He pours a single cup, finding the cream and sugar in the respective homes, mixing them. The clink of spoon against china helps quell his faster-beating heart. It mixes into a soft caramel colour. 

Well, he’s stalled enough.

Time to meet the monster.

He tucks the box of cookies under his arm and holds the cup of coffee in the other. He makes his way to the door, haloed in light. He briefly wonders if he should knock. But then again, he has already encroached on this man’s space enough. He can catch a book if it is sent flying at his forehead. He briefly wonders again if this version of him understands this message.

He knocks anyway.

No reply.

He can enter.

It’s an intricate study. Shelves upon shelves are stacked and stuffed full with stories, statues sit and stare. Paintings of impressionist scenes cover any empty space. Oil-lit lamps light the stage. It is rather similar to the library in the Wandering Sea, but Lady Murasaki would be offended by its sorry state. Open books lay face up and down, scattered around half-haphazardly. Pencils used down to their bones threaten to trip unsuspecting guests, empty inkwells splatter the last freckles of their stain on the wood floor. Pages covered in black swathes collect in piles. Spiderwebs have begun collecting in the corners.

Protruding from the wall is a desk of solid oak dyed a deep brown. It is covered in pages, inkwells, and feather-tipped plumes. A book sits propped up, one of it’s pages showing a scene of a ravenette girl sitting on a rock, sighing to the starry heavens. It wobbles slightly at movement, threatening to topple over the pages and scatter ink over all of the hard work. 

And there he is.

A green heart smiles at him from the top of his spine. 

That dazzling blue hair the colour of the moon’s sea, messy and unkempt. The soft pallor of skin not used to the harsh sunlight. There is no vest, nor oversized lab coat that drags on the ground, but anyone familiar with the original would be acutely aware of the true name of this specter.

Blue lines run down his shirt like prison bars, curving and bending as he leans over his desk. His sleeves do not reach his wrists, revealing black ink smeared on his forearms. A chain wrestles against his neck, looking less like the cord to hold glasses and more a tightness around his throat. 

The shadowy man swallows the lump in his throat. The chains are in his sight. He feels the tightness of the ball’s chain around his ankles, the bag smothering his vision. Water fills his lungs. Blackness spreads across his mind, the binds on his feet paralyze him. 

The green heart smiles at him.

_“Oh, Edmond! Come, come, I have a place I wish to show you.” Her skin like a pearl’s, smooth compared to his rough fisherman’s touch. She blushed when he first told her he didn’t think himself worthy of touching her - had she not worked hard, as well? Were her fingernails not dirty from the field? Were her hands not blue from the dye? He took her hand, rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin on the top. If it was his decision, he would make it so she would never work another day. He would throw himself into the ocean, full of long trips, piracy if need be, to keep her hands clean._

_He would become a monster for her continued happiness._

The waves crash through the scene. She’s gone. All that remains is the deep. The bag constricts around him as the air escapes. The weight pulls him farther and farther down. The chains bite into his ankles and constrict around his chest. He has to move, he must move or he will drown. And what will that get him? Faria had given him a final gift - and here he was, sulking in the sea.

The sea was only for dead fishermen, of sirens who dragged their lovers to their end.

This room was only for ghosts. For those swallowed by the crashing wave of time to drown.

The green heart is like a siren’s eye. The spirits whisper at him to go back. He can still push his way back. He feels his skin prick up, decorated in goose pimples.

The green heart winks at him. This is not the man he knows. This is a mistake created to fool the strong. 

Innocent monster he is. 

Monster.

His eyes travel up. The blue hair, the colour of the moon - it is the light.

He is familiar. He is Chaldea. He is late nights with coffee and midnight ramblings about their own stories and their creators. The blue stripes melt away - they are curtains, wrapping him up in its hearth. It grounds him - his feet touch the seafloor and he stands, looking up at the light that cascades down from the surface.

Innocent monster he is. 

Innocent.

 _No, monster is not the correct term,_ he thinks. He is the old keeper of the house. Perhaps, once, he had been able to haunt those who dared trespass. Now all he can do is threaten. He is but a man who waits for the curtains to close and for death to take him some place else, anywhere else. He cannot be a siren, no, that is that devilish woman who consumes all.

Yet, he still makes him draw further near. He steps into the light. A floorboard creaks.

“Good, you’re finally here. The bathroom’s been clogged for a day now.”

He raises his eyebrow. “I had not expected that to be the first thing you would say to me.”

Still, the blue-haired man does not turn around. His arm continues to scratch at paper. “Well, you’re just a specter, anyways. I see the ghosts have become quite original now. Despite my love for Dickens, I am not interested in being hounded by three ghosts. Are you the ghost of the past? Are you to remind me of my previous sins? Or,” he turns around and gives him a quick once over, “No, you must be the Ghost of Christmas Present, Marley would have sent you as your despicably chipper self if he wanted to show me my past.”

“Andersen,” he begins, but he is cut off. The man waves his hand in the air.

“I must criticize him for changing the script - there is a reason why the story is so well known! To think he believes himself capable of making the story better by swapping things around, he is so arrogant!” He huffs and rolls his eyes. They are the same deep blue of a clear sky, but are now cut by long eyelashes, encircled by red lids and sink in deep. 

“So, are you here to criticize my actions? To tell me that my work is fruitless, perhaps? I will not take your hand and see the happy lives of those in the Wandering Sea. I will not be changed,” Andersen continues, never pausing for breath.

He knows what will happen if he tries to fight Andersen on this - they will simply talk over each other. He is, thankfully, very much like his other self. He smiles.

“Oh, is this pleasant for you? Do you like to laugh at a forgotten man? To think, you were hailed as some hero of justice, some ally of humanity - yet he laughs at the man who is iron willed in his decision! I thought you would be more understanding, Dantes-”

“It is because I am understanding that I smile, Andersen,” he says, taking another step into the room. “I am not here to show you the homes of those who have left you in this state.”

Andersen furrows his brow, his eyes settling on the coffee in Dantes’ hand. 

“Would you like some? Cream and sugar, like-” Dantes pauses, and Andersen rolls his eyes.

“Yes, like my infantile self prefers,” Andersen sighs but motions his hand for Dantes to pass it over. Their fingers brush as Dantes’ gloved hands loosen their grip on the handle and Andersen’s occupy the empty space. He takes one sip. 

There is no change to his expression. “Is the sugar and cream to your liking?” 

Andersen shrugs his shoulders, “Sometimes, a child’s taste is better.”

Dantes smiles. All of his time preparing cups of coffee for Shakespeare and Andersen (well, rather, the younger one) had paid off, it seemed.

He sets the cup on his lap. Dantes does another quick glance over. His white pants feel more reminiscent of a man on vacation, hugging close to his hips. His shirt falls over him like a sheet. His sleeves slide down his forearms, his collar loosely hugs his neck. Either by accident or on purpose, he has forgotten the first couple of buttons, revealing his collar bones that dip down from the valley of his neck. His glasses’ chain swings with each movement, framing his jaw. The small stones on his glasses shine like stars, peeking from the expanse of blue hair. 

There is much that is familiar - the hair, the intensity of the gaze, the way he carried himself. But he feels looser, more open and relaxed. 

Dantes does not fail to notice the small guardedness, however. He knows of the scars and the scales that scour his skin and are secretly hidden away. Even in this form, without restriction or deadline, some things are kept the same.

“So, if you are not here to show me your world, and you are - you are real, correct?”

Dantes nods, “Yes.”

“...Then what is your purpose here, tonight? Have you simply come to annoy me? To knock on the door and run away? I am no Boo Radley - do not think that wandering in to pester me will gain you anything.”

“Perhaps, I simply wanted to offer you some company.”

This makes Andersen laugh, throwing himself back into his chair and lifting his knees up. Dantes simply watches him laugh, wiping the tears from his eyes. “If you wish to harm yourself, I am sure there are others who can occupy your time. Why, I am sure that my younger self would do nicely.” He waves his hand, “No, you best run along.”

“No.”

Andersen raises an eyebrow, “Are you deaf? You must be - the spirits must have told you what is to become of this place soon enough. We are to die, Dantes. This place is no longer needed, everything’s been tied up with a nice, big, bow! All that is left is for the final actors to be shuffled off of this mortal coil, if you will, and then the book can be finished!”

“I am aware,” Dantes begins.

“Then you are not deaf, but an idiot. I could have guessed, with all of that Attaindre et Espayrer bullshit.” Dantes wonders if he mispronounces the French on purpose, or if it is a carry over from real life. 

Andersen leans back into his chair and looks to the side, “Or perhaps, you truly are Death, come to whisk me away to the afterlife.” He sighs, “And to think, I thought I would have more time for my work!” 

He turns to look back at him, “But, they have chosen a rather annoying Death for the task. Alas, it makes sense - no one cares about my fate! No reader is clamouring for my sequel, they skip over the epilogue, no, this land will never be used again. It makes sense for them to pick you to handle a task no one would want to!” His eyes land on Dantes’ right hand, “I had been incorrect, you are the ghost of the future - here to show me my tombstone.”

“I am not Death,” Dantes goes down onto one knee, resting his arm on his leg. “Nor am I a ghost here to haunt you.” 

Andersen raises his eyebrow. “Then you are the real King of the Cavern?”

“Yes.”

Andersen kicks at the air in front of him, his leg just a little too short to hit Dantes in the face. “Then you are even more daft! This is not your place - this land is of spirits, of monsters and of those beyond death. Servants may be familiars that wander through the space of life and death, you even more so, but no one servant can survive these terrors alone.”

“You speak of me as if I am a noble servant.”

“You are far more noble than I! When the story ended, were you not whisked away from this place? No, this is the proper hole for a servant like me. The Snow Queen has her icy palace, the Beast his tower, this is my castle. A monster deserves to be locked up, kept away from the joy of humans, best forgotten so children need not think of what lies underneath their beds.”

“Neither of your examples would hide under a bed,” Dantes reminds him.

Andersen waves his hand, “There’s a reason why - they were kept in their place. You’d do best not to have me under Ritsuka’s.”

“I believe that there are already some,” Dantes tells him, thinking of the women that stuck to Ritsuka’s side. “There are many monsters who have found a new happiness there. You seem to forget that I too was locked up.”

“And you escaped,” Andersen reminds him.

“And yet it sticks to my mythologie like tar. I am like you, Andersen, we are both monsters. I am as home here as you are. Just like you, I am still trapped in Le Chateau d’If, my soul anchored there no matter how far away I travel.”

Andersen crosses his arms and one leg over the other. “You said you were not here to offer me a new life.”

Dantes sighs and brushes his hair from his eye. “Yes, I am simply here for your company.”

“And how is it? How would you rate your Interview with a Ghost? Make sure to rate it five out of five stars with your review.”

“If you are trying to anger me into leaving then it will not work.”

Andersen smirks. “Then, what do you wish to do? The television has long stopped working, the fridge is empty and the grocery store is filled with zombies. If you wished to be eaten by things from the lagoon, then we could take a scenic boat ride or a quick dip. I can’t imagine watching me write is quite entertaining, and if you want idle chatter, then you can run home and talk to my other self. If you wanted a quicker death, well, I’m sure there are monsters that could do it much faster than waiting for this chapter to close.” He takes another deep sip of coffee.

Dantes leans back onto his knee, his eyes looking up at Andersen. He has done this in front of younger Andersen before, his heart at his feet. Then he had seemed like a young prince, but here, he is more like a challenging king, ready for death, but still curious about the offer on the table.

“Let me run you a bath.”

Andersen spits out his coffee.

* * *

It takes some wrangling to pull the man from his chair and into the bath. 

“This is extremely unnecessary,” Andersen says as he stands next to the tub. It’s a classic clawfoot, unexpected in this place but not unwelcome. The water fills up slowly as it swirls around in its porcelain prison. Dantes has thrown off his coat and jacket, leaving him in his vest with his dress shirt’s sleeves rolled up. He kneels next to the bath, with his fingers under the tap to test the temperature.

_“I don’t need you to do this, Count.” She brushes a lock of her fiery red hair behind her ear. Despite the fact that he has seen her in far less - he almost gagged when he first saw her, adorned in so little to raise her price - she is bashful in her nightgown. He bought it for her, as well, of the finest silk adorned with intricate patterns. It is only right that a Princess wears the best._

_He pours another bucket of hot water into the tub. “Have I not done this before for you, Haydee? Are you ashamed by my actions?”_

_She turns her head to the side, her fingers curling and twisting her collar, “I can never be ashamed of you, Count. But this...seems beneath you.”_

“I can run the bath myself,” Andersen cuts through his thoughts as he kicks Dantes’ side. 

“I’m sure of it - that’s why you have been taking baths frequently, yes?” 

Andersen sighs. 

“You shouldn’t be talking - you reek like a French cafe. You would do best to wash the stink of cigarettes off of you.”

Dantes shuts off the tap, letting out a small chuckle.

“I am glad to hear that you and your other self share the same complaints.”

Andersen crosses his arms. Standing with his shirt over his boxers and socks pulled up by garters, he looks like a parody of himself. Dantes tries not to look too long. “Of course we are similar - not everyone becomes an edgelord when they age.”

Dantes raises an eyebrow but gets to his feet. “The bath is ready. Take your time.” He holds out a baby blue towel.

Andersen opens his mouth to say something else, but takes it from him and nods. 

He doesn’t close the door fully. Dantes is not sure what to do with himself. He paces around in the kitchen, his fire sticking and burning the floorboards. Frustration runs through him. He’s never been a patient person, easily pricked and preferring to jump to the next place. One apartment feels too small. If he were in Paris, he could stroll through Champs-Elysees, if Auteuil, then he could find peace in the holes of his garden. All he could do here is sit, stew, and singe. If he went outside, all he would gain is an early death.

Dantes puts away the half-drunk cup of coffee. A film sticks to the sides of the cup that he washes out with the ferocity of a Scottish queen. The french press is cold to the touch when he grabs it, the remaining coffee too cold to be enjoyed (heaven forbid he microwave it!) So he cleans it too. The coffee grounds are like black volcanic sand that bubbles in the drain. 

He does not know what else to do. His mind just flips over the events over and over again.

Perhaps it was that vampire, perhaps that mermaid, perhaps it was the ghosts that collected in the eaves, but Andersen believed himself to be a ghost. He basically was one - trapped in this moment of time forever until someone came and grabbed him. 

Dantes’ hands grip at the sink as he leans over. There’s nothing but the subway backsplash staring back at him. 

Was he a ghost? Was that not what a forgotten man was? 

Why was he so obsessed with him then? Forgotten men transformed into ferocious foes - he of all men should know of that. 

…And that man always said that a forgotten man was worse than a dead one. Perhaps that is why he made sure no one would forget The Count of Monte Cristo.

He shakes his head before the red reaches the surface.

But did he truly believe that this monster would lose his innocence?

He lifted his head and stared at the halo of light that emanated from around the bathroom door. Chills from sweaty skin turning cold run through his body. If he pays too much attention, he can feel the frustrated fire fester. It wishes to be let free. Maybe he should go find some beasts to rip apart - better they than he tearing himself to shreds.

He runs a hand through his hair. It’s clawed and monstrous but not alien, and he shakes it until the Hyde paw disappears. 

Why was this upsetting himself so much? He tries to think back to what he did when Haydee bathed, but all he manages to remember is the smell of lavender and hair the colour of embers.

It couldn’t be Andersen, no. Yes, that man was familiar. He was cups of coffee with cream, he was flickers of feathers, he was a roll of the eyes and the tight pull of bandages. He was protesting, he was the man who made fun of those who talked too highly of themselves yet could not be shut up if he got on a tirade. The man who appeared to hate all, especially himself, but displayed love in small ways, be it a duckling or a single match.

That was familiar. An innocent monster. 

The door opens a little. Its creak is a whisper.

This Andersen, he felt like a prisoner. Dressed up in his own prison outfit. A complex full of ghosts. A master of a haunted domain. 

…

With aquamarine hair that matches his starry eyes. A smirk befitting of a devil. The constant pushing to see what button would make him erupt.

He presses his back to the wall next to the door. Ears listen carefully to the soft splashes of water from inside. Water drips onto the tile. He looks in front of him and studies the wall. There’s stains from water damage and a hole where something was once hung. He fights the urge to stick his finger in and dig further, his fingernails pressing into his palm.

If he were his old self, perhaps he would slip in. Maybe he would slide his hand under Andersen’s jaw and -

What was he thinking?

What was it about this new form of him that made him ball his hands and press his back into the wall?

Maybe all that was needed was a new tinder for sleeping coals to ignite.

But that man was a ghost. Every time the noise dies down, he holds himself back from looking in and making sure that he’s really there. Did his presence matter, then? If he was a ghost, bound to die when the world disappeared in a flurry of gold dust, then why care about him? Andersen’s words dug into his mind. He should take his leave.

Why was he taking care of him? Why did he care so much?

He knows the power of ghosts. His mind reminds him of the purpose of the trip - well, the purpose he told himself. It’s best if he simply killed him before he caused more trouble for his master. Was he a servant? Did it matter? It was a spot that needed to be wiped clean lest it spread out -

“If you’re going to continue to slam your head into the wall, you might as well come inside,” Andersen’s voice once again cuts through his thoughts. 

He straightens his back as he runs his fingers along the frame. “Are, you… Are you sure?” He’s acutely aware of the man’s privacy, the way he keeps himself and his body tightly sealed. His mind drifts to those gartered legs and he has to ball his fists again.

He can almost hear the roll of Andersen’s eyes, “It’s better than ‘POV: Wall-hitting ASMR.’”

Dantes swallows the lump in his throat, “Alright, I’m heading in.”

Humidity has filled the room from the bath. It almost frames the bathtub in the middle of the room. He sits up, back curved, arms around his chest like a caught maiden. Dantes almost feels like has to turn away.

He stands awkwardly in the door frame. 

“You can come closer,” Andersen tells him. Is it the heat from the water that makes his face red or?

“If it so pleases you.” Each step feels like an inch and a mile, a second and a year all at once, until he’s basically leaning over the bath. Dantes keeps his eyes on Andersen’s face, framed by steam, partly out of respect, partly due to not knowing what would happen hadn’t he done so.

“You sound like you’re meeting Josephine,” Andersen sighs and drops his hands to his knees that poke out of the water like small islands. He squints, “You didn’t...meet her, correct?”

“No, I did not have the luxury of meeting l’empresse,” he replies. He remembers the snake telling him of how she was supposed to be his godmother, but he leaves that on his tongue.

“Alright…” Andersen’s fingers scrape along his skin. “Stop looking over me like that. Sit down.”

“The floor is wet.”

Andersen cocks an eyebrow, “I thought you were the best swimmer in Marseille.”

“Edmond Dantes was the best swimmer in Marseille,” he corrects him, “I doubt I could swim now if I tried.”

“Have you tried?”

Dantes looks up as if to try and recall. “The children, Nursery Rhyme and her band of company, once tried to drag me into the waves in Hawai’i, but that was more akin to wading, if anything. I...try my best not to go back into the sea, after my last swimming contest.” If Andersen does not understand the reference, he does not ask for clarification.

He decides to give him something then as thanks, shedding his vest for his bathing trunks and sitting down on the tile. 

Dantes watches Andersen’s eyes. Artists are known for their gazes. It is the way of a creator to look at life and see how it could be translated onto paper. His sight travels along his scars, reading him like a page. He draws the circle of his tattoo along his shoulder. 

“Do they bother you?” Dantes interrupts his movements.

“I’m sure that if I were to try and make a paper cutting of you, I would curse them,” Andersen replies. He pulls his knees in so he can rest his face on them. He sighs. “Yet, as an author, it is full of description. As a poet, you are definitely the tyger.”

Droplets hang down from the back of his neck. Dantes watches as water collects until it is too heavy and falls, cascading down his shoulders.

“As hypocritical as I have been known to be,” he bites his lip softly, “It would be too much for me to call your scars unbearable.”

“Not at all. Yours are not from your life.”

Andersen raises an eyebrow and smirks, “Do you not wonder how many are your own? Or how many that man added on?”

“He did a rather compelling job, I would say.”

“Oh? Did you give him this view as well?”

Heat rises to his chest again. “No.”

Andersen would not be an author if he didn’t catch small tonal changes. He lifts his head up in surprise but the look is gone in a flash. He instead sits back up, letting his back rest against the side of the tub. 

Now Andersen’s scars are on full display. Even the blushed skin can not compare to the scarred and burnt flesh. Dantes recognizes it having burnt so many with his own hellfire. It dips into his neck and runs down his arms like wine on paper staining the pallor. There is no pattern, it travels wherever it wishes, etched in the skin like a pen’s scratches.

“I have heard that if one survives a lightning strike, it decorates the skin with branches. If only my readers had been so kind.”

“You curse them,” Dantes says.

Andersen shrugs, “Unlike you, my curses gain me nothing. Readers are wicked creatures - never happy, they rip at us until they get what they want. They push so much for the death of the author, yet will bring us back from the grave to get an unnecessary sequel.”

He slides into the water until his chin is submerged. His right hand draws from the water and hangs off the side. Water sloshes in the tub. His knees slide down and his toes peek up from the other side. The scales glitter under the light.

“The second little mermaid,” Dantes whispers.

Andersen huffs, “Yes, that blasted woman and her silly ideas! That story was well wrapped up, and yet look what she does!”

“I do not think that your lodgings are as bad as you make them out to be, Andersen. You have everything you need, all but inspiration. Perhaps the young girl has left, but her wish h-”

“Funny of you to ask for sequels, Mr. Count,” Andersen laughs, “Did you enjoy your sequels? Did you watch any of your plays and musicals?”

Dantes remains seated. Andersen is not looking at him, rather the ceiling, as his hand moves back and forth with his speech. He does not tell him, no, he had not - he was far away from France by that point - he knows Andersen is simply trying to catch flame.

“I myself was never a fan of the movies, but well, being published in The Count of Monte Cristo was certainly a high honour!” Andersen smirks, “Perhaps one of these scars is from me as a reader.” He reaches his finger out and traces the air above the scars on his neck.

“That author makes you to be his muse, and in turn makes you his prized animal. You may have escaped that prison, Mr. Dantes, but you will always be his tiger, trapped in that crypt.” Andersen laughs. “Even now, as you say, your soul is trapped.”

He leans his head back against the lip of the tub. “No, you should know better than anyone that some stories need no sequel.”

The room settles into silence. Anger bubbles underneath the surface. The walls feel claustrophobic. The faucet is dripping - it takes everything for Dantes not to rip the piping out of the wall.

He knows Andersen means not what he says - he always wishes to rile him up. If he is but another version of him, then he wishes to see the hellfire. 

“I was told that your other version handed her a book titled _The Little Mermaid II_ , but its pages were blank,” Dantes informs him through gritted teeth.

“Ha! Oh, that is good - I commend him for that.”

“Perhaps then, your task is finished.”

“No - never.” He tucks his arm back into the water. His shoulders are covered in goose pimples. “You learn quite early on that no matter what - your readers will never be happy. There is always another piece to write - was that man’s writing room not called le Chateau d’If?” He gestures his hands up to the ceiling. “Perhaps this is mine, created by that foolish woman.”

Dantes places his hands on his lap. His eyes rest on Andersen’s scaled shins. Legs crossed like so, he looks like a trapped merman. 

“You are free now, Andersen. It is time for you to do whatever you wish. You are as you say - a ghost. No one glances into the closet to see what the monster wishes.”

The blue haired man looks up at the ceiling and takes time to think. Perhaps he will write a story he wishes to write for himself, or go out on a boat ride or -

“There is nothing I wish but a good death.”

Dantes is not surprised. 

There is nothing left here but ghosts.

“And I am sure it will happen soon.”

Andersen raises an eyebrow and turns his head to look at him.

Dantes sighs, “I am sure that this place will self-destruct at some point. If it is by my hand that you would prefer to die than by golden du-”

He’s interrupted by Andersen’s laughter. “Don’t make me laugh, Dantes!” He wipes the tears from his eyes, now sitting in the tub and facing him. When he settles down he says, “No, no, is it not thematic for a ghost to be swept away with the wind?”

He sits there and studies him. He is tempted to reach out to touch the skin to make sure he is real. He has no death perception - can he even kill a ghost?

Can a ghost truly kill another ghost?

“It would be rather poetic for a reader to kill the author.”

Andersen tuts his lips, “Hm, I suppose.”

“A monster destroying a monster, too.”

“Yeah, but who is going to pen that one, huh? You?”

“I have been hanging around the author’s room enough for some of it to have rubbed off on me. I’d probably write it better than Shakespeare.”

Andersen chuckles, “No, no, you’d never be able to capture the drama like him.”

“Then perhaps, you will need to come back to tell Shakespeare about all of this.”

He closes his eyes and sinks into the water. They settle into silence. 

They know the truth. Andersen is rooted here, he cannot leave. It is not his time nor place. He cannot go back and tell Shakespeare, and in killing him Dantes will gain nothing. If he asked, of course he would - as a parting gift, perhaps. But shaky hands do not make a murderer.

“The water’s gone cold.” 

“Would you like to get out?”

“Yes.”

Dantes stands up. His swim trunks are once replaced with his slacks. He feels weird having his chest bare still, but Andersen’s eyes don’t linger anymore and stick to his face.

“Let me help you out,” Dantes offers as he holds his hand out.

“I’m fine,” Andersen bats his hand away. 

Deciding it’s best to wait outside, Dantes walks away.

* * *

Rain has rolled in on a strong wind. It pelts at the window and shakes the door on its hinges. Dantes forgoes the cigarette and instead claws at his skin for relief. 

He does not expect Andersen to walk out fully nude.

Dantes darts his eyes to the side and covers his face, “Andersen!”

“What? I did not expect you to a prude with the way you hold your tr-”

“Did I not give you a towel?!”

“Dantes, you must try walking around naked after a bath, it truly is the be-” He’s interrupted by Dantes’ jacket hitting him in the face.

Andersen pouts, “Fine.” He does not complain further, wrapping the cape around his shoulders. His hands tighten around the front as a makeshift button.

“Are you to stay the night?” 

“The rain is quite hard,” Dantes says, closing the distance. 

Andersen bites the inside of his mouth, “Fine, do whatever you please, I don’t care. I’ll go back to my desk.”

“Here, let me tuck you in,” Dantes offers. He reaches out to rest his hand on Andersen’s shoulder, but he quickly turns around and starts walking away. 

“You can fuck off, that’s what,” Andersen says. “I’m not a child, you know. To think that this appearance would make you aware of that. I am not a man who needs to be waited on hand and foot, I know what I’m doin-”

“You’re about to walk into the door.” 

Andersen turns to glare at him. 

“What is this all for?”

“Pardon?”

“Taking care of a ghost. Of me.”

“Ghosts need to be taken care of too, so they may pass on.”

“We both know that will not be happening. I was created for this place and this place only, once it dies, I do too.”

“There is still a ch-”

“Am I supposed to simply wait and hope, Count?”

Dantes drops his hands to his side. He knew all too well the truth.

“Come back with me.”

“You sound pitiful.”

“Mercedes, she too originally came from the depths of my hell, but she returned as Nightingale. You too can return, in this form.”

“I need not a saviour - no need to be declared dead before returning to life to escape. I have already been brought back for selfish desires, it would be too much for me to drift into the sea with you.”

“Will you wade, then?”

Andersen’s one hand is on the door knob, the other twisting the collar of the coat. He furrows his brows, “Pardon?”

Dantes presses his body against Andersen’s, cupping his face. The skin is as smooth as porcelain, his hair still wet from the bath. He can feel the heat rise to Andersen’s cheeks, his gaze slipping and falling into confusion.

“Please wade with me, just a small taste,” Dantes pleads, “If you do not wish to drown, then can I just wash over your ankles.”

“You’re terrible with metaphors,” Andersen bites.

Dantes chuckles, “Then, perhaps, more flatly - can I kiss you?”

Andersen breathes out his reply:

“Yes.”

Dantes has had many kisses. Mercedes’ lips were full, enough to ease the soul and fill one with sunshine. He remembers Heloise’s lips on his cheek, poisonous and secretive. Kisses pressed to his hands like rings on his fingers. Haydee’s kisses full of hope, threatening to swallow him whole.

Andersen is different.

There is a bit of inexperience, there is an uncertainty to him. Andersen sighs into the kiss, eagerly opening his mouth. His free hand reaches out to touch the skin above Dantes’ hip. His hands are cold and wrinkled from the bath, and Dantes shivers at the touch.

Dantes moves his head to the side. His hand tilts Andersen’s cheek up so their kiss deepens. He wishes to taste all of him. Perhaps if he does, he will be certain that this form is real. 

The other hand travels where it pleases. It runs through Andersen’s drying hair, droplets running down his forearm. It brushes his neck. He has many a time carried the smaller version away from trouble, that it feels weird for there to be so much weight under his touch. 

It is not unwelcome, of course, just...different. 

“Dantes,” Andersen whines. His eyes are closed and his cheeks hot. The hand that grips tight on Dantes’ coat acts as the only barrier between their two chests. 

They pull away, breaths strained. Do ghosts need to breathe? Dantes studies the way Andersen’s chest rises and falls, his flustered face, the way his eyes dart everywhere.

“This isn’t some fragment of my imagination, right? This isn’t just some change to the original story?”

“No.”

Andersen nods and looks down, “And you are not going to pull an Aeneas on me?”

“I would prefer not to go back to Rome.”

That elicits a chuckle from him, and he leans in to kiss him again. This time, it is softer, the initial passion stepping away for the sweetness of the second kiss. Andersen leading is more tentative, and Dantes bites back his impatience and lets him explore. His hand travels up his side. Each touch feels like a permanent fingerprint on his body. The stain creates more that he wishes to never rub clean, the author adds more mythologie.

They pull away, Andersen’s eyes moving around. “Um, as, as much as I am, enjoying this - and I truly am, yes, I’m unfortunately.” He tightens the grip on Dantes’ coat, “Quite cold.”

He cocks an eyebrow and leans in, his lips dangerously close to the shell of Andersen’s ear, “Would you like me to warm you up, then?”

Andersen turns his face to steal a kiss onto his cheek, and Dantes follows suit, letting Andersen’s lips graze his once again. He wishes to stay here forever, trapped in Andersen’s kisses, but when Dantes’ hands graze over Andersen’s neck he’s reminded of the cold and he pulls away. 

Standing up straight, he bites his lip and offers his hand. “Well?”

“Well what.”

“Are you not going to let me be romantic?”

“Prince Charming can be romantic and yet plain.”

Dantes smirks and raises an eyebrow, “Well, then, Mr. Hans Christian Andersen, would you perhaps be interested in lying with me?”

“You seem like the type to have cold toes - no.”

“Was my wording not plain enough still?”

Andersen replies by raising his eyebrows and tilting his head to the side.

“Fine,” Dantes says, and snakes his hands under the coat to find home under Andersen’s armpits. He might be a little heavier and much taller, but it does not take much effort to lift him up over his shoulder. 

The coat flutters down the ground.

Andersen’s room is far too tidy. 

The sheets are tucked in. It’s a rather plain bed, with blue sheets and a couple of throw pillows that lean against the wall. Dantes lovingly throws him onto them, watching him bounce up a little with the mattress.

He is now in his full glory. His arms and legs look almost too long for his body, the way they spread out on the bed. His chest heaves up and down in excitement. His arms, singed with his reader’s reviews, flush red. Those torn merman fins fall off of the bed. They sparkle the same blue of his dry hair, more like a bird’s feathers than a fish’s scales. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Andersen pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Please.” 

Dantes crawls onto him to cover the distance, his arms pining Andersen’s head and his legs slotting between the other’s like perfect puzzle pieces. He kisses his lips once more, drinking him in deep. He sighs against him. His lips are a little rough from the lip-biting. They taste a little like coffee, but he cannot complain - Andersen is not complaining about the taste of cigarettes. 

Supporting himself with one arm, he uses the other to cup his cheek. They’re still warm and soft. Too perfect for Dantes’ scarred hands. 

“Sorry, they probably scratch,” Dantes apologizes and moves his hand back, but faster than light, Andersen’s hands are in his, grabbing it back down possessively. Sapphires stare back at him as he litters Dantes’ knuckles with pecks. Andersen opens his hand up, and leaves a big kiss, his eyes fluttering close.

“I already told you - I cannot say that your scars are unbearable.”

“But do they hurt?”

Andersen furrows his brow, “Do they hurt you when I do this?” 

_“I’m sure we can find a salve that could hide your scars. Or some form of makeup.”_

“No, it’s ticklish, if anything.”

Andersen nods and rubs his thumbs over the scar on the back of his hand. “Do you hate them?”

“My scars?”

“Yes.”

“You curse your own,” Dantes reminds him.

“And you dodge the question.”

Dantes looks down at himself, his bare chest laid out to spell every misfortune. The way they travel down at himself, it’s like lines of sediment in rock, layers upon layers of hate and revenge. A fire spreads from his chest as if to threaten his neck and arms of the burning rage.

He sits on Andersen’s bare stomach. Andersen’s mouth transforms into a squiggly line in response and Dantes bites back the desire to smirk.

He holds out his left forearm. Right below the wrist lies a small notch. “That one is from my time as a sailor - we were stuck on an island due to bad weather destroying our hull, needed to fish - well, this young kid, well, I was young too, really, but anyways - threw the cord back too fast and it got stuck in my wrist. Nearly pulled me off the bow.”

He flips his arm over and turns it to show his right bicep, “This one was from a, let’s call it a cooking accident.” He laughs softly, “The old man wasn’t the best chef out there.”

Finally he lifts his bangs up to reveal his right eyebrow, where a small notch sits just above, “That one was from when I was running with a wooden sword as a kid - tripped on the landing. Surprisingly the toy did a number on me.”

Dantes drops his hand and with it so too do his bangs. He looks down at Andersen, letting fingers return to Andersen’s hips.

“Not all are from that time,” Andersen breathes.

“And not all are mine,” Dantes explains. “I don’t remember the ones around my ankles.”

“So that man did add more.”

“Either that or the throne believed them to add to the drama,” Dantes chuckles. 

Andersen’s fingers reach up to trace the tattoo that envelops his shoulder. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Do you hate them?”

“They act as a way of remembering.”

“Your enemies?”

“Of memories.”

“But they are painful memories.”

Dantes holds onto Andersen’s hands, guiding him to the fire that spread out his chest. “Painful memories are what fuels an avenger.”

Andersen scowls, “But what fuels Edmond Dantes?”

“You and I both know that man no longer exists.”

“Neither do I - entertain this forgotten man.”

Dantes sighs and leans in, leaving kisses on Andersen’s jawline, “Hope, of course, and the desires of all men.”

Andersen lets out a shaky breath, “That’s a roundabout way of saying you’re horny.”

Dantes smirks into his kisses as his lips move up Andersen’s jawline, his breath hot in Andersen’s ear. “May I taste you?” 

He nods, “Please, yes.”

He knows the pleasures of man. He’s sampled the sweetness of women, he’s beaten himself to a pulp to hide his pleasures in Chaldea, he’s laid with men and a kaleidoscope of genders. In that sense, this should be familiar.

But he is still shaky as he moves down Andersen’s body. He leaves kisses down Andersen’s neck, relishing in each moan that drips out of his lips.

“What are the rules on the,” he pauses.

“Don’t touch the scales and be careful with the burns.”

Dantes nods, “Thank you.”

So he is careful. He leaves soft and small kisses on the burns on Andersen’s shoulders, making sure to not touch the skin with his teeth. It’s rough on his lips, but he wishes to give every piece of Andersen the love he deserves - to keep in his memory each part of him.

He travels further down, resting his hands on Andersen’s hips and pecking the soft skin above his navel. In this position, Andersen’s arousal is hard to ignore. It hovers underneath his chest, just barely touching.

“Is it alright, if I touch you there?”

“I would be upset if you didn’t.”

“Then, let me,” Dantes says with a smirk. 

He settles himself down on his knees in front of the bed. Once again he is here, on his knees in front of him, heart on the floor. Andersen sits back up on his elbows but sinks back down with a groan as Dantes’ hand holds onto the base of Andersen’s dick.

“Fuck,” he whines and grabs onto the sheets.

“Does this hurt?”

“It’ll only hurt if you don’t move your hand.”

Dantes smirks, “I’ll do you one better.”

Before Andersen can ask what, Dantes’ lips are on the head, his tongue swirling around the top. Andersen’s mouth spills with swears, sweet and scouring, surely not the vocabulary of a children’s author. But he takes it to mean it feels good - and the soft pleas that tumble out agree with that assessment.

He knows he can take his time, so he does, slowly withdrawing his mouth and licking up the sides. Andersen is fully hard now, standing hard and hot in the open air. He savours the warmth on his tongue, the smell of the bubble bath that sticks to his skin, and the way Andersen bucks up slightly or tightens at Dantes’ movements.

“Please,” Andersen mumbles. He lifts his head back up again to look him in the eyes, and Dantes complies. He once again brings his mouth to the head of his dick and sucks softly. Andersen only manages to hold eye contact for a second before he throws his head back down onto the bed.

His thighs tighten around Dantes, as if to keep him close. He begins to move his mouth up and down Andersen’s dick, taking him further and further with each bob of his head. Andersen’s hips start to meet Dantes’ lips to help him swallow more. Drops of precum hit his tongue. His tongue swirls around as he moves back up, dipping his tongue to collect some.

He moves further down. He can feel Andersen’s dick scrape against his teeth, it inches close to the back of his throat. He hollows out his cheeks and flicks his tongue. Every groan from Andersen’s lips makes Dantes harder. To see his lover in such throws of passion made him the most excited he had been in a while - it was no shameful punishment to be with him.

Perhaps, Andersen had strung along another weak-minded person. Perhaps, he fooled another strong-minded person. Perhaps he would throw the matches down and set him ablaze. It mattered not to him - no hellfire could match the heat that bubbled under his skin at Andersen’s expression full of pleasure.

“Fuck Dantes,” Andersen’s hand reaches up curls his fingers in Dantes’ hair. 

“You can hold on, if you would like,” Dantes says, pulling off and pressing his cheek into the hard skin, his hand on the base leaving small circles.

“Come up here,” Andersen says instead, pulling at Dantes’ hair to draw him back up. The tug is not harsh, it does not rip hair from the scalp, it is full of a desire that makes Dantes’ heart beat fast and pants feel tight against his pants.

Their mouths crash again, and Andersen’s fingers remain in his hair. They smooth his unruly locks down, they thread through the strands, they push his bangs to the side so he may kiss him on his forehead, leave soft kisses on his eyelids, in the corners of his eyes against his nose. Lips return to his as hands trace down his chest, feeling the ever-faster beating in his breast and the curves of his abs.

“Can you?” Andersen asks with a tug at Dantes’ waistband.

“I’m surprised to see you so demanding,” he says, but complies, the rest of his clothes fading away in a flurry of golden dust. His dick is on full display now, hard from Andersen’s moans and the sight of him - hot and face covered in lust.

Andersen’s fingers run up from his hips and wrap around his neck to pull him closer. Their noses brush, “It is only because you’re trying to be so romantic.”

“Apologies - I am from the historical romance genre, after all,” Dantes apologizes with another quick kiss.

Dantes sits back on his heels and places his hands on Andersen’s knees. He makes sure his fingers do not touch the scales, and Andersen opens his thighs for him. Dantes is in the new space, his face pressed against his entrance to loosen him up. Andersen’s hips buck back against his tongue, and Dantes accepts it greedily, sliding his fingers in once he’s covered in spit and smooth.

He watches him as he fucks him with his fingers, slowly adding another digit when Andersen’s face changes to pleasure. His toes curl, fingers grabbing onto the bed, moaning sentences stringed by the other servant’s surname and swears. 

“Is this too much?” Dantes asks. “You’re too not overwhelmed?”

“No, no, another, please,” Andersen begs and Dantes complies, sliding a fourth finger inside. His fingers curl up inside of him, hitting his prostate, and Andersen throws his head back. Dantes watches the flushed neck as he scissors him to open him further. His dick sits hard, straining against his stomach. But he’s patient, waiting for the go-ahead.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come soon,” Andersen admits, raising his head to look at him in the eyes.

“Would you like that?”

Andersen licks his lips and shakes his head, “No - fuck me, Dantes.”

He needs no further instruction. Andersen whines softly as he slips his fingers out of him, but Dantes eases his complaints by climbing over him again and covering his face with kisses. His lips find home on Andersen’s, and he slides his tongue inside, his tongue like his tendrils, wishing to taste his entire mouth. 

He lines himself up, one hand on Andersen’s hip while the other holds his dick. The head presses against the entrance, before it dips inside of him. Dantes bites down on his lip at the sudden tightness, the heat that threatens to make him come undone. He slides a little bit further in, not fully hilting himself. Just enough to get Andersen acquainted with the new presence.

Andersen is warm and tight, deliciously gripping around his cock, but he focuses on his expression. He leans in and brushes the blue bangs away from his eyes, peppering him with kisses to distract him. His impatience is getting to him - he wants nothing but to fuck him restlessly - but he holds himself still, watching carefully. 

The way his Adam’s apple bobs with each breath, the way his skin shines with sweat, the soft mewls that escape his mouth when Dantes nibbles softly on his neck. 

“Please, please move,” Andersen begs, and Dantes does just that.

He slowly inches himself out, then pushes back in, just a little bit more this time. Andersen’s cock rubs between their bodies, and Dantes gives it small touches to distract him. He takes his time, pulling out until all but the tip of his dick remains, before carefully pushing back in. Andersen groans each time he’s filled up, and whines when that fullness disappears. 

Soon, his body gets used to being opened by Dantes, and he wraps his arms around Dantes’ neck to bring him closer.

“What can I do for you, Andersen?”

“If you don’t go faster, I will go mad.”

Dantes smirks down at him - Andersen kisses the smirk away.

He speeds up, feeling Andersen’s legs wrap around his waist as he thrusts faster. Andersen is warm and constrictive around him, and his hips slam harder inside of him. Andersen replies in kind with his own, fingernails digging into the flesh and whispers in his ear.

It does not take them for them to come undone, and the way Andersen constricts around him when he hits that spot makes it difficult for Dantes to think straight.

“I’m, I’m gonna come,” Dantes tells him, his face falling into the pillows near Andersen. His hips are not his own anymore, focusing only on fucking the soft flesh. 

Andersen’s ankles dig into his back, pushing him in further, and that’s all that’s needed - Dantes comes with a choked moan, spilling inside of him. His hand reaches down and returns its attention to Andersen’s dick, jacking him off. 

Andersen comes in a sweet gasp, decorating their chests. It acts as a new decoration to their already-used canvases.

Dantes slips out of him, using all of his strength to pull himself up and not fall on top of Andersen. 

“Okay - clean me up.”

* * *

“I told you that tucking me in was unnecessary,” Andersen tells him. His hair is wet from the second bath of the night.

“Have to make sure you don’t crawl back to your writing desk.” Dantes presses the blanket in and kisses his forehead. 

“There’s another way you could ensure that.”

Dantes raises an eyebrow, “And what is that?”

Andersen sighs. 

“Are you aware of the trope, ‘but there was only one bed?’”

* * *

The room feels familiar. 

A hot cup of coffee sits next to him, a few sips drunk. It’s a dark coffee, only the best beans from Turkey, but pressed in a french press. Its barista has made sure that there are no grinds that stick to the sides of the cup, leaving it smooth and delicious to sip on. It feels almost like a crime to have thrown in the sugar cubes and milk, but he is so used to drinking the worst quality coffee and dumping sugar in so that it’s drinkable, that it’s hard for him to drink coffee any other way. 

He leans over his desk, papers in front of him. He swirls a feathered pen in his fingers. He reaches up and touches his forehead—a headache is starting to develop. 

He knows he has the perfect conditions to write. Every one of his desires has been cared for so that he may sit down and write. 

And yet. 

Familiar hands land on his shoulders. His mind is too busy with thought that he does not hear them come in. But he does not shy away from the touch, letting those hands run down his arms and back up. The hands are wide, like a farmer or a worker, but soft, as if they have never tilled a field in their life. He recognizes the small grooves from cuts and battles from his youth, or cuts from a knife. For these are the retired hands of a chef, one who used to hunt and duel as a young man but now mostly spent time in his home. 

But they are also the talented fingers of an author, the way they begin to dip and roll into the flesh of his skin, massaging his shoulders. At the top of his spine, they find a knot, and slowly start to knead it, melting it away. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and it is then, finally, that he looks up from his work to look at his guest in the eyes. 

“How is the coffee?” his friend asks him. He can recognize that face anywhere—he remembers their Paris escapades, their time together before becoming heroic spirits. While he thinks he’s become this tired, overworked author, his friend has retained that youthful exuberance he’s remembered by. He’s dressed like his father, a decorated army general, but it matches him well. He wonders about the teeth, but finds himself drawn to those lips instead… 

“Kiara makes it better.” 

His friend – Alexandre Dumas – laughs and leans back. He keeps balance by gripping onto Andersen’s shoulders and he watches him quietly. He feels like he’s always been watching that man smile. He has been described as light, as joy – those descriptions match. 

“Of course, of course, that girl is finely tuned to your tastes!” He pulls a hand off of Andersen’s shoulders to rub his chin. He shrugs his shoulders – he was never one to take an insult for too long – and pats Andersen’s chest. “Would you like something to go with it? This place has a pretty nice oven, I could probably whip something up for ya.” 

Dumas’ cooking – something so integral to him that it’s embedded in his Saint Graph. Andersen blames his pickiness on Dumas spoiling him while in Paris, taking him to the fanciest French restaurants, or treating him to delicious home cooked meals straight out of his cookbook. No ingredient was beyond experimentation, and each came with a story. Late evenings after the opera ended with Dumas in his true element, apron tied around his waist, sleeves rolled up and a smile on his face as he recounted a childhood story about Victor Hugo and hazelnuts, or Dumas’ theory on domesticating kangaroos. 

“Is there any alcohol in there?” Andersen asks. 

“Alcohol is important, my friend, but only when it is paired with food.” He waved his arm at Andersen’s table, covered in messy papers and coffee stains. “Something you have forgotten to pair yourself with today. Did the young girl bring any food?” 

“She might have – check the fridge.” 

“Did you eat any of it?” 

“I might have – what day is it?” 

Dumas furrows his brow and places his hands on his hips. Andersen knows that he cannot chide him on taking care of himself. They’re both authors, both adults, both old friends who know each other’s vices and habits too well. Dumas knows of Andersen’s time in Parisian bars as much as Andersen knows of Dumas’ time with women. 

“An empty stomach does not inspire a novel,” Dumas reminds him. “Come, you can watch me cook.” 

Andersen chuckles, “You make it sound like that it’s a gift.” 

Dumas smirks down at him, “Of course it is. You don’t want to miss it.”

* * *

"I can sleep after my deadline," Andersen reminds him. 

"Why have such a nice bed in here if you don't use it?" Dumas laughs, tucking the sheets so they hug Andersen's arms. 

He watches the man dutifully tuck him in. He had children - Andersen vaguely remembers meeting his daughter, and he knows of his son's writing fame, too. His mind sinks in and attaches to his words. If he were more romantic, more brazen, more like Dumas, basically, perhaps he would have winked and asked if he would be interested in 'using the bed with him', or something similar. But he cannot even picture himself doing that, nevermind the fact that he cannot imagine Dumas agreeing. 

Dumas took him backstage at the operas to mingle with light-footed dancers and bright smiles. The women of Paris were gorgeous, of course, but those moments paled in comparison to the way those nights ended, with Dumas cooking a small meal before bed and Andersen watching him from the kitchen. He would watch his back, taking in the little details - Dumas' folded sleeves, his talented hands, his wiry hair. 

He sees his back again now as Dumas flicks off the light. 

"Will you be heading out after this?" Andersen asks. 

Dumas chuckles and pats the door frame. "You won't let the hero have a dramatic exit?" 

"Sorry, I was never a good actor. I don't understand the cues," Andersen admits. 

“That’s probably for the best! I’m no hero, anyways.”

Andersen’s doubts run to the foreground, “Are you real? Or are you just a figment of my imagination?”

Dumas looks back and gives him his charismatic smile. Andersen’s heart beats fast. “Perhaps I am just a ghost, here to haunt you into paying your workers more.”

“Rather rude of you to use Dickens against me.”

“I’m not,” Dumas sighs, “Let me be your Marley.”

Andersen furrows his brow, “I do not need more interruptions.”

Dumas clicks his tongue and reaches for the door knob. “You equate love with annoyance! You are rather lucky I love you so much, Andersen!” His heart jumps. “No, I know all too well that a trapped author cannot write - and deadlines and creditors are the worst forms of inspiration!” 

The door slowly begins to close, “I will send you just one, then - I’m sure I could have written the story better than Dickens with one ghost, anyways! Just like back then in the territory of malice - I will send him for you.”

“You ignore the whole point of the three ghosts.”

“And you continue to ruin my story ideas - you would be a terrible substitute for Maquet.”

Andersen smirks, “Why not come back and haunt me then?”

“All actors have their cues, and I am still in the kitchen cooking a banquet worthy of your tastes,” Dumas explains, “I will see you soon, in the sea.”

“You both know we are not destined for there, Alex.”

“All the more reason to wait for your arrival, then I will lift you on my shoulders and carry you to glory!”

Andersen sighs. “Wait and hope?”

Dumas smiles, closing the door.

“Wait and hope.”

He slinks into the pillows and dreams of the ghost he will send him.

**Author's Note:**

> hi welcome to adet rambles about references only he gets <3 also this was a com/m! they are currently closed but you can check out my twitter or tumblr, both @avicebro, for updates. this was also supposed to be 2.1k. i am a fool. 
> 
> \- ship title comes from '[from eden' by hozier,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmWbBUxSNUU&ab_channel=Hozier) the album helping me quite a lot  
> \- dantes does this thing? where he basically kin-assigns people from his life into fate characters. i think he would associate xu fu with heloise, the wife of villefort who /spoilers/ poisons a whole bunch of people for her son's gain  
> \- further, dantes equates nightingale to mercedes, and marie antoinette to haydee, thus the french country side line despite IRL haydee being from Greece  
> \- knocking convention taken directly from gon (pepperedfox) 's [Demon and Bluebird](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778374) fics  
> \- the serpent is of course alexandre dumas, who andersen knew in real life and met  
> \- the thing about mercedes is that she isn't like, this born rich lady, she worked hard in her life, wanted to show that with the hand descriptions  
> \- really went off on the innocent monster motif, idk  
> \- also really went off with a christmas carol framing device, huh lol. marley is the ghost that warns scrooge of the three ghosts that will haunt him.  
> \- literary reference list: boo radley, queen macbeth, aenaes, tyger,  
> \- andersen was terrible at french. this is just a fact.  
> \- i am a filthy "i have complicated emotions about haydee/dantes' but i can picture some good scenes with them" shipper  
> \- dont microwave coffee. love yourself.  
> \- dumas heavily believed that being forgotten was worse than being dead. tcomc acts as a love letter to his father - by immortalizing edmond dantes, he immortalizes the basis for the character (at least in the real world lol, not fate) - thomas-alexandre dumas  
> \- hyde paw cause hyde is a furry in prototype and we were robbed  
> \- random dumas fun fact according to his autobiography he was supposed to be napoleon's godson yes he has a source for that take that how you will  
> \- watch dantes' scene in summer 3 for some lovely swimming angst  
> \- andersen did paper cutting things. look them up.  
> \- the count of monte cristo became a publication newspaper, dumas would publish some of andersen's works there (edited, by dumas, of course)  
> \- dumas DID name his writing room le chateau dif. later on his life, he equated writing to prison.  
> \- andersen liked to walk around naked after baths. there's a ccc scene about it  
> \- wading imagery comes from the song [wading by jhene aiko](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EYS-zFrcD_A&ab_channel=JheneAikoVEVO), doesn't really apply to this fic thematically 100% but it is, a good song  
> \- heloise kiss from,, count of monte cristo anime where it's suggested that heloise has a crush on the count. not bad imo.  
> \- aenaes line is from him and dido in the aenid, god im a fucking nerd  
> \- haydee is the one talking about covering up the scars.  
> \- andersen definitely reads fanfics  
> \- maquet: dumas' writing partner, often gave dumas story ideas


End file.
